Yesterday, I had a blog posted for TWLOHA.
Here the link: http://www.twloha.com/blog/in-defense-nerds-in-praise
It's also posted on the TWLOHA fan page if you want to share it with other people.
And here's a quote that I'm really loving right now:
"Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won't either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could."
— Louise Erdrich
I hope, wherever you are, you know of a love that stirs your soul.
Sending joy to you through the computer screen,
whitney
Friday, December 10, 2010
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
An Understatement and a Special Piece
Dear, dear Readers, how I have rejected you over these last few months.
Know that I haven't forgotten you (yes, even you, Kirby:D ).
I could give you a dozen excuses, but those wouldn't really make it better, huh?
I guess the main reason I haven't posted is not because I didn't have things to say, but more that I didn't know that what I had to say was relevant or what you all would want to read or powerful enough to be posted.
That's pretty silly, right?
I mean, I think you have to be at least a little narcissistic to keep a regular blog--you know, believing that other people, potential strangers, give a shit about what you have to say.
So this, my friends, is an effort.
I don't have some great, profound words to share for the evening.
But I will share something I've worked on in the months I've been absent.
It's a fiction piece, and it's very special to me.
I hope you'll tell me what you think.
And I hope that wherever you are, you know that you are beautiful and loved and deserve to laugh and smile every single fucking day.
I'll post again very soon.
Keep a look out. :)
_________________
I notice his hands.
The long, slender fingers with their trimmed nails.
Smooth hands that were made to be gentle.
Hands that haven’t known hard work but could be marvels if they met my body.
His eyes hold me like arms should.
Deep set and gray like London.
Long lashes the color of onyx.
When he holds me through them, I’m utterly and completely his though he doesn’t know it.
He’s never sure if he should touch me.
I make the decision for him, touch him first, let him know that it’s okay, that I don’t mind taking the lead.
I slip one finger under each sleeve and trace half moons on his biceps.
He closes his eyes, letting me.
Surrendering.
This tiny moment, it says everything we’ve been wanting to say.
It says that I am bold.
It says that he is longing.
It says that we will let this current take us out.
His hands come to rest lightly on my shoulder blades.
And that gesture, my shoulder blades instead of my hips or my breasts or my ass, it is so far from anything that may be a violation.
He nudges me, not enough to move me but enough for me to know he’s ready for me to be closer.
I trail my fingertips up and down his back now as I step closer.
His lips rest on my forehead, just below my hairline.
They are soft and full, and for a moment my fingers stop at the wonder I feel in those lips.
I pull back enough to stare into his gray depths.
Tonight has been so tender, and he is such a broken boy.
And I want to hold him to my chest, one arm around his back, my other hand in his hair.
I settle for my arms resting on his shoulders, my left hand playing lightly with the hair at the nape of his neck.
I smile, just happy to share this moment, this now, this possibility with him.
Something in him releases, and his lips come down to meet mine.
His wraps my bottom lip between his lips, and I move closer, closing the space between our bodies, his hipbones pressing just above my own.
I part my lips.
I can feel him holding back.
This is the tale of us together, letting him know that he can be free with me.
I slide my tongue through to meet his, and he grips me moving one hand to the small of my back, more than nudging now.
We lose ourselves in the magic of meeting this way.
Again.
My hands explore the folds of muscle rippling in his skin.
His hands are more respectful.
My lips move to his jaw, square and dusted with shadow.
I kiss a trail to his ear and move down his throat.
I get to the hollow, and his head is rolling back.
“Jade,” he whispers, and I don’t know if it means stop.
I decide it doesn’t and continue the attention of my lips to his collarbone, opening the collar of his button down that I may serve him better.
Those long, slender fingers slid my hair out of its pins and find a home in the curls.
Just as my hands come around to get the next button, he tilts my chin toward his face with his thumb and forefinger.
Once he’s holding my gaze, his hand returns to my curls.
I’m lost in the smolder of his eyes for what seems like an age.
Then he says, “we shouldn’t get carried away,” and I think I hear a tingle of regret in his tone.
“What does carried away even mean?” I challenge.
“Well, for one, it means me stopping before I get to the point where I can’t,” he says.
“And would that be so bad?” I say with a smirk.
“Probably not during,” he says, looking away from me.
I know that he has given so much tonight.
I reply, “that’s okay, lover. I am quite a patient woman.”
His hands leave my hair, their pins lost forever in the grass beneath our feet.
I grab one hand and lace my fingers through it, and we walk to the train.
Know that I haven't forgotten you (yes, even you, Kirby:D ).
I could give you a dozen excuses, but those wouldn't really make it better, huh?
I guess the main reason I haven't posted is not because I didn't have things to say, but more that I didn't know that what I had to say was relevant or what you all would want to read or powerful enough to be posted.
That's pretty silly, right?
I mean, I think you have to be at least a little narcissistic to keep a regular blog--you know, believing that other people, potential strangers, give a shit about what you have to say.
So this, my friends, is an effort.
I don't have some great, profound words to share for the evening.
But I will share something I've worked on in the months I've been absent.
It's a fiction piece, and it's very special to me.
I hope you'll tell me what you think.
And I hope that wherever you are, you know that you are beautiful and loved and deserve to laugh and smile every single fucking day.
I'll post again very soon.
Keep a look out. :)
_________________
I notice his hands.
The long, slender fingers with their trimmed nails.
Smooth hands that were made to be gentle.
Hands that haven’t known hard work but could be marvels if they met my body.
His eyes hold me like arms should.
Deep set and gray like London.
Long lashes the color of onyx.
When he holds me through them, I’m utterly and completely his though he doesn’t know it.
He’s never sure if he should touch me.
I make the decision for him, touch him first, let him know that it’s okay, that I don’t mind taking the lead.
I slip one finger under each sleeve and trace half moons on his biceps.
He closes his eyes, letting me.
Surrendering.
This tiny moment, it says everything we’ve been wanting to say.
It says that I am bold.
It says that he is longing.
It says that we will let this current take us out.
His hands come to rest lightly on my shoulder blades.
And that gesture, my shoulder blades instead of my hips or my breasts or my ass, it is so far from anything that may be a violation.
He nudges me, not enough to move me but enough for me to know he’s ready for me to be closer.
I trail my fingertips up and down his back now as I step closer.
His lips rest on my forehead, just below my hairline.
They are soft and full, and for a moment my fingers stop at the wonder I feel in those lips.
I pull back enough to stare into his gray depths.
Tonight has been so tender, and he is such a broken boy.
And I want to hold him to my chest, one arm around his back, my other hand in his hair.
I settle for my arms resting on his shoulders, my left hand playing lightly with the hair at the nape of his neck.
I smile, just happy to share this moment, this now, this possibility with him.
Something in him releases, and his lips come down to meet mine.
His wraps my bottom lip between his lips, and I move closer, closing the space between our bodies, his hipbones pressing just above my own.
I part my lips.
I can feel him holding back.
This is the tale of us together, letting him know that he can be free with me.
I slide my tongue through to meet his, and he grips me moving one hand to the small of my back, more than nudging now.
We lose ourselves in the magic of meeting this way.
Again.
My hands explore the folds of muscle rippling in his skin.
His hands are more respectful.
My lips move to his jaw, square and dusted with shadow.
I kiss a trail to his ear and move down his throat.
I get to the hollow, and his head is rolling back.
“Jade,” he whispers, and I don’t know if it means stop.
I decide it doesn’t and continue the attention of my lips to his collarbone, opening the collar of his button down that I may serve him better.
Those long, slender fingers slid my hair out of its pins and find a home in the curls.
Just as my hands come around to get the next button, he tilts my chin toward his face with his thumb and forefinger.
Once he’s holding my gaze, his hand returns to my curls.
I’m lost in the smolder of his eyes for what seems like an age.
Then he says, “we shouldn’t get carried away,” and I think I hear a tingle of regret in his tone.
“What does carried away even mean?” I challenge.
“Well, for one, it means me stopping before I get to the point where I can’t,” he says.
“And would that be so bad?” I say with a smirk.
“Probably not during,” he says, looking away from me.
I know that he has given so much tonight.
I reply, “that’s okay, lover. I am quite a patient woman.”
His hands leave my hair, their pins lost forever in the grass beneath our feet.
I grab one hand and lace my fingers through it, and we walk to the train.
Friday, June 25, 2010
A Certain Kind of Magic in Nashville
I grew up throwing dirt clods for sport and listening to Garth Brooks and Vince Gill on cassette tapes. Bare feet and dirt roads. When I was older, four-wheelers and trails through the woods. In high school, I was a part of the self-proclaimed redneck crowd donned in Carhart coats socializing around their oversized trucks with lift-kits. I still remember when my dad moved out when I was in second grade into another trailer across town. He had cable, and I was introduced to CMT and music videos. All that is to say, I was raised in the country on country music.
Though my musical tastes are broad, country music emanates this feeling of home. There is this unparalleled community that happens in the country music world. There is a shared history and love of the South and its culture, a fondness for simple pleasures in life, and the sweet twang—all of these things bringing musicians and fans together.
Jess and I share an office, so when she looked up the information about CMA Fest, I was the first to hear about it. My job is mostly administrative and doesn’t require me to go on the road very much, but I knew that if TWLOHA was going to be at CMA Fest I wanted to be there. Of the fourteen people on staff, Jess, Chris, and I are the only country fans. Chris is from Georgia, so it’s a part of his soul. Jess is a diehard fan and has adopted a bit of a twang. But we were sure it wouldn’t work. Summer is our busiest season, and TWLOHA has never been involved with the country music world at all.
Jamie and Rich said yes. Surprised but incredibly excited, Jess submitted our application. The CMA Fest only has three or four nonprofits, a much smaller number than we’re used to so we were unsure whether or not we would get picked. Next thing I know, Chris is packing the back of the Jeep like a jigsaw puzzle while Jess, Emily, and I organize pillows, snacks, and music for the long drive to Nashville. Although Emily wasn’t a big country fan before the festival, she left singing along to Lady Antebellum and Carrie Underwood and still laughing about Blake Shelton’s jokes.
I’ve been back for ten days and I’m still smiling and singing Zac Brown Band’s “Free” with a majestic hope in my heart. I said the words, “we’re a nonprofit raising awareness about depression, addiction, self-injury, and suicide” with an info card in my hand and sweat trickling down my back 847 times, and I didn’t get tired of it. Some people politely listened feigning interest and others really heard me and tied a string from themselves to us because somehow our story was their story, too.
Peggy didn’t expect to be so drawn in. She stopped at the McDonald’s tent to get a snack for her granddaughter waiting at the picnic table when our funny name caught her eye. For the 321st time, I told a stranger who we are. Holding back tears, she told us about her niece Jeanie and how much Jeanie needed to know about us. “This is so Jeanie, all Jeanie,” she kept saying and shared how Jeanie has dealt with great loss and pain in the last year. Peggy walked away and wasn’t a stranger anymore.
The next day, Chris was helping a petite soft-spoken woman with her blonde hair cropped just above her shoulders who was learning about us for the first time. I came up when she was paying for her Love is the Movement shirt. Holding back tears and digging in her wallet, her gaze not meeting our eyes, she said she lost her brother to suicide. I said I was so sorry to hear that and Chris asked her name. Asking someone their name gives them this unspoken validation that they matter even though they may be a stranger. Through her smile, she said her name was Lisa, and I knew I would never forget her. She looked at me and said, “Mom and Dad are never the same,” and I said, “Yeah, it changes everything—nothing and no one is ever the same.” She nodded, and I asked when her brother passed sure that it was within the past few months. Her voice cracked as she said, “1986.” I tried to contain my surprise. I haven’t lost someone to suicide, so I haven’t dealt with that kind of pain personally. Her brother has been gone longer than I have been alive, and her pain at losing him is still so fresh and real. She held up her shirt, bowed her head, and said thank you as she walked away, and I wonder who is more grateful that she stopped at our tent—her or us?
At CMA Fest during the day different zones are open and most of them free to the public, but at five booths start closing up for the night for everyone to get dinner and make the trek to LP Field across the bridge for the evening concerts. Passes to the concerts were included with our booth package, so each night we joined more than 40,000 people to sing and dance to our favorite country songs. Anyone who enjoys seeing live music knows the magic of being in a crowd of people, singing the same song at the top of your lungs and getting goose bumps. It doesn’t always happen that way in the nosebleeds, but during Keith Urban’s set it was inevitable.
In case you’ve been under a rock and don’t know this, Nashville had an awful flood the first weekend in May. Most of downtown Nashville (where CMA Fest is held) was under water. In the beginning, the media didn’t give it much coverage and the city wasn’t getting help from the outside. But Nashville banded together, pulled themselves up and did what they had to do to get their city on its feet again. Restaurants spent their days making bag lunches and giving them away throughout the city, while other people worked to repair the damage. A little more than a month later, they were ready to host the first ever sold out CMA Fest.
Keith played his whole set, then he talked about Nashville and the flood. He talked about how proud he was to be a part of a city with such a strong community, how people joined together without thinking twice, and how important it was for all of us to be there at CMA Fest, how much Nashville needed us to come. He dedicated his next song to the city and the people and launched into a cover of “With a Little Help from my Friends” with Little Big Town. The performers at Heavy and Light this year also covered this song, but this performance had a different force, a different power, a different magic with images from the flood flashing on the screen behind the band. We stood and we sang and we rocked (yes, we still rock out in country music). In The Perks of Being a Wallflower, Charlie talks about this moment where he and his friends are singing together in the truck and he says he felt infinite (page 39), and this night, this song, this moment is infinite for all 40,000 of us.
Depression doesn’t care if you wear a cowboy hat with Wranglers or skinny jeans with Converses. I hope that through this small window into what may be a different world you see that this story may be your story, too. It may look different and sound different, but pain is universal. Hope is, too. That’s why we went because everyone is a part of this ongoing conversation. May your life look like this—where strangers become friends in an instant, where 40,000 people can feel like family, where a song and a few pictures become an infinite moment you want to tuck away so you can take it out again and again.
So much love to all of you strangers reading this.
Know that there is someone down in Florida who believes in you.
Thank you for letting me be a part of your story.
whitney
Though my musical tastes are broad, country music emanates this feeling of home. There is this unparalleled community that happens in the country music world. There is a shared history and love of the South and its culture, a fondness for simple pleasures in life, and the sweet twang—all of these things bringing musicians and fans together.
Jess and I share an office, so when she looked up the information about CMA Fest, I was the first to hear about it. My job is mostly administrative and doesn’t require me to go on the road very much, but I knew that if TWLOHA was going to be at CMA Fest I wanted to be there. Of the fourteen people on staff, Jess, Chris, and I are the only country fans. Chris is from Georgia, so it’s a part of his soul. Jess is a diehard fan and has adopted a bit of a twang. But we were sure it wouldn’t work. Summer is our busiest season, and TWLOHA has never been involved with the country music world at all.
Jamie and Rich said yes. Surprised but incredibly excited, Jess submitted our application. The CMA Fest only has three or four nonprofits, a much smaller number than we’re used to so we were unsure whether or not we would get picked. Next thing I know, Chris is packing the back of the Jeep like a jigsaw puzzle while Jess, Emily, and I organize pillows, snacks, and music for the long drive to Nashville. Although Emily wasn’t a big country fan before the festival, she left singing along to Lady Antebellum and Carrie Underwood and still laughing about Blake Shelton’s jokes.
I’ve been back for ten days and I’m still smiling and singing Zac Brown Band’s “Free” with a majestic hope in my heart. I said the words, “we’re a nonprofit raising awareness about depression, addiction, self-injury, and suicide” with an info card in my hand and sweat trickling down my back 847 times, and I didn’t get tired of it. Some people politely listened feigning interest and others really heard me and tied a string from themselves to us because somehow our story was their story, too.
Peggy didn’t expect to be so drawn in. She stopped at the McDonald’s tent to get a snack for her granddaughter waiting at the picnic table when our funny name caught her eye. For the 321st time, I told a stranger who we are. Holding back tears, she told us about her niece Jeanie and how much Jeanie needed to know about us. “This is so Jeanie, all Jeanie,” she kept saying and shared how Jeanie has dealt with great loss and pain in the last year. Peggy walked away and wasn’t a stranger anymore.
The next day, Chris was helping a petite soft-spoken woman with her blonde hair cropped just above her shoulders who was learning about us for the first time. I came up when she was paying for her Love is the Movement shirt. Holding back tears and digging in her wallet, her gaze not meeting our eyes, she said she lost her brother to suicide. I said I was so sorry to hear that and Chris asked her name. Asking someone their name gives them this unspoken validation that they matter even though they may be a stranger. Through her smile, she said her name was Lisa, and I knew I would never forget her. She looked at me and said, “Mom and Dad are never the same,” and I said, “Yeah, it changes everything—nothing and no one is ever the same.” She nodded, and I asked when her brother passed sure that it was within the past few months. Her voice cracked as she said, “1986.” I tried to contain my surprise. I haven’t lost someone to suicide, so I haven’t dealt with that kind of pain personally. Her brother has been gone longer than I have been alive, and her pain at losing him is still so fresh and real. She held up her shirt, bowed her head, and said thank you as she walked away, and I wonder who is more grateful that she stopped at our tent—her or us?
At CMA Fest during the day different zones are open and most of them free to the public, but at five booths start closing up for the night for everyone to get dinner and make the trek to LP Field across the bridge for the evening concerts. Passes to the concerts were included with our booth package, so each night we joined more than 40,000 people to sing and dance to our favorite country songs. Anyone who enjoys seeing live music knows the magic of being in a crowd of people, singing the same song at the top of your lungs and getting goose bumps. It doesn’t always happen that way in the nosebleeds, but during Keith Urban’s set it was inevitable.
In case you’ve been under a rock and don’t know this, Nashville had an awful flood the first weekend in May. Most of downtown Nashville (where CMA Fest is held) was under water. In the beginning, the media didn’t give it much coverage and the city wasn’t getting help from the outside. But Nashville banded together, pulled themselves up and did what they had to do to get their city on its feet again. Restaurants spent their days making bag lunches and giving them away throughout the city, while other people worked to repair the damage. A little more than a month later, they were ready to host the first ever sold out CMA Fest.
Keith played his whole set, then he talked about Nashville and the flood. He talked about how proud he was to be a part of a city with such a strong community, how people joined together without thinking twice, and how important it was for all of us to be there at CMA Fest, how much Nashville needed us to come. He dedicated his next song to the city and the people and launched into a cover of “With a Little Help from my Friends” with Little Big Town. The performers at Heavy and Light this year also covered this song, but this performance had a different force, a different power, a different magic with images from the flood flashing on the screen behind the band. We stood and we sang and we rocked (yes, we still rock out in country music). In The Perks of Being a Wallflower, Charlie talks about this moment where he and his friends are singing together in the truck and he says he felt infinite (page 39), and this night, this song, this moment is infinite for all 40,000 of us.
Depression doesn’t care if you wear a cowboy hat with Wranglers or skinny jeans with Converses. I hope that through this small window into what may be a different world you see that this story may be your story, too. It may look different and sound different, but pain is universal. Hope is, too. That’s why we went because everyone is a part of this ongoing conversation. May your life look like this—where strangers become friends in an instant, where 40,000 people can feel like family, where a song and a few pictures become an infinite moment you want to tuck away so you can take it out again and again.
So much love to all of you strangers reading this.
Know that there is someone down in Florida who believes in you.
Thank you for letting me be a part of your story.
whitney
Monday, June 21, 2010
My Hope for You
A few minutes ago, I loaded more than 900 pictures onto my computer.
Here is one I want to share with you:
Those robes are buried in closets.
That grass watched me take a piece of paper, a piece of paper that ended a chapter for me.
These hands belong to some of the women I love most in the world.
This ring connects me to a long history of women, a history of fighters, free thinkers built with a certain quickness and spirit.
I am proud of where I come from.
I am thankful for Meredith College.
Whoever you are, may you be given the opportunity to know the kind of joy and challenge I know in that place.
Cheers to you.
love.
Here is one I want to share with you:
Those robes are buried in closets.
That grass watched me take a piece of paper, a piece of paper that ended a chapter for me.
These hands belong to some of the women I love most in the world.
This ring connects me to a long history of women, a history of fighters, free thinkers built with a certain quickness and spirit.
I am proud of where I come from.
I am thankful for Meredith College.
Whoever you are, may you be given the opportunity to know the kind of joy and challenge I know in that place.
Cheers to you.
love.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
A Recommendation
I know I have been quite absent this past week.
Sorry about that.
However, this post is not about catching up and offering my thoughts and words today.
It is more about letting you know about words from other people.
I read A LOT.
Like, my New Year's Resolution this year is to read 75 books.
And I am on track.
I love reading and writing with my whole self.
That is why I'm pointing you, dear readers, in the direction of Tessa Gratton.
She is a writer friend of Maggie Stiefvater, the author of Shiver.
Tessa writes books and keeps a regular blog, and she pretty much rocks.
Just to show you how much she rocks, I am going to share a drawing she made.
I hope you will head on over to www.tessagratton.com and spend some time checking her out.
Thanks.
Hope you all are enjoying the sweaty month of June.
love.
whitney
Sorry about that.
However, this post is not about catching up and offering my thoughts and words today.
It is more about letting you know about words from other people.
I read A LOT.
Like, my New Year's Resolution this year is to read 75 books.
And I am on track.
I love reading and writing with my whole self.
That is why I'm pointing you, dear readers, in the direction of Tessa Gratton.
She is a writer friend of Maggie Stiefvater, the author of Shiver.
Tessa writes books and keeps a regular blog, and she pretty much rocks.
Just to show you how much she rocks, I am going to share a drawing she made.
I hope you will head on over to www.tessagratton.com and spend some time checking her out.
Thanks.
Hope you all are enjoying the sweaty month of June.
love.
whitney
Saturday, June 5, 2010
An Attempt at Consistency
My eyes are burning in that way that only happens when you have been awake too long.
They just want to close for long and beautiful hours of rest, dreams, and inactivity.
Bags and suitcases full of all the items that make up the home I manage to build away from home line the wall behind me.
I have a perfect new window seat that is momentarily occupied by boxes in The Yellow House (that's the name of my new home, as of last night).
The Temper Trap's "Sweet Disposition" is streaming through my headphones while I sit on my frameless bed.
I'm awaiting the sunrise.
I moved to Florida 9 months ago, and I've wanted to see a sunrise here since I arrived.
Today will be my first.
Sunrises are special to me because I never rise with the sun, since I've normally set not long before the sun rises.
Just after the sun rises today, though, I shall set.
The sleep will be thick and deep, necessary adjectives after this week.
Twelve hours ago, two of my friends got married.
Despite the teasing rain and soaked backyard, we celebrated.
In sweat and love and joy and hope, we most definitely celebrated.
They belong together.
It feels good to have witnessed, and I wish you knew them.
I'm still trying to figure out if that kind of love will be a part of my life one day.
Regardless, it is beautiful to see in the lives of people around me. :)
Now it is 5:32 am, and I am still awake.
My mind is crowded with jumbled thoughts of honesty and vulnerability.
I believe both are better than their alternatives, but I'm finding that I do neither of them as well as I would like.
Is that the tale of being human?
Always reaching for a goal we may never attain on this side of heaven?
I wish my brain had enough room to process and contemplate for a while.
But it doesn't, and after the closest star rises in the sky, I will recharge.
Perhaps this post is slightly splotchy and quite short.
But, hey, this is my effort to post more.
I hope that wherever you are, your Saturday morning finds you with a smile on your face and hope in your heart.
Know that you are loved in more ways than you know.
Let me know how you're doing in comments, and always if you have any questions post them there.
I am glad you're here.
They just want to close for long and beautiful hours of rest, dreams, and inactivity.
Bags and suitcases full of all the items that make up the home I manage to build away from home line the wall behind me.
I have a perfect new window seat that is momentarily occupied by boxes in The Yellow House (that's the name of my new home, as of last night).
The Temper Trap's "Sweet Disposition" is streaming through my headphones while I sit on my frameless bed.
I'm awaiting the sunrise.
I moved to Florida 9 months ago, and I've wanted to see a sunrise here since I arrived.
Today will be my first.
Sunrises are special to me because I never rise with the sun, since I've normally set not long before the sun rises.
Just after the sun rises today, though, I shall set.
The sleep will be thick and deep, necessary adjectives after this week.
Twelve hours ago, two of my friends got married.
Despite the teasing rain and soaked backyard, we celebrated.
In sweat and love and joy and hope, we most definitely celebrated.
They belong together.
It feels good to have witnessed, and I wish you knew them.
I'm still trying to figure out if that kind of love will be a part of my life one day.
Regardless, it is beautiful to see in the lives of people around me. :)
Now it is 5:32 am, and I am still awake.
My mind is crowded with jumbled thoughts of honesty and vulnerability.
I believe both are better than their alternatives, but I'm finding that I do neither of them as well as I would like.
Is that the tale of being human?
Always reaching for a goal we may never attain on this side of heaven?
I wish my brain had enough room to process and contemplate for a while.
But it doesn't, and after the closest star rises in the sky, I will recharge.
Perhaps this post is slightly splotchy and quite short.
But, hey, this is my effort to post more.
I hope that wherever you are, your Saturday morning finds you with a smile on your face and hope in your heart.
Know that you are loved in more ways than you know.
Let me know how you're doing in comments, and always if you have any questions post them there.
I am glad you're here.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
A Welcome of Sorts
Last night into the early hours of the morning, I posted "So I Remember Later."
I shared it with the people who made yesterday meaningful for me.
Little did I know, one of them would go on to share it where we work and it would be posted on To Write Love's blog.
I am honored and thankful and appreciative and smiley. :)
I have worked for To Write Love since last September, and the blog is still one of the most powerful things for me.
Being able to have my own words posted there is a victory and a blessing and an answer.
I say all this to welcome any new readers.
If you look at the archives, you see I'm not the most frequent blogger.
While I hope to change that, it is always my first goal to string together words that move me and other people, words that are true and feel so real you think you might be able to touch them.
I'm glad you're reading, that you are letting your story intersect with mine.
I hope you feel the freedom to email or comment with questions, thoughts, or even your own writing.
Know that what you're thinking matters, that your story is worth telling.
I hope you'll stick with me through this season, that maybe at our intersection we will stop awhile and plant a garden.
For now, may your Tuesday night be warm and bright.
May you read good books with a cup of tea and rest in the knowledge that joy comes in the morning.
Whoever you are, wherever you are, remember you are loved.
whitney
I shared it with the people who made yesterday meaningful for me.
Little did I know, one of them would go on to share it where we work and it would be posted on To Write Love's blog.
I am honored and thankful and appreciative and smiley. :)
I have worked for To Write Love since last September, and the blog is still one of the most powerful things for me.
Being able to have my own words posted there is a victory and a blessing and an answer.
I say all this to welcome any new readers.
If you look at the archives, you see I'm not the most frequent blogger.
While I hope to change that, it is always my first goal to string together words that move me and other people, words that are true and feel so real you think you might be able to touch them.
I'm glad you're reading, that you are letting your story intersect with mine.
I hope you feel the freedom to email or comment with questions, thoughts, or even your own writing.
Know that what you're thinking matters, that your story is worth telling.
I hope you'll stick with me through this season, that maybe at our intersection we will stop awhile and plant a garden.
For now, may your Tuesday night be warm and bright.
May you read good books with a cup of tea and rest in the knowledge that joy comes in the morning.
Whoever you are, wherever you are, remember you are loved.
whitney
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